Taking Chances
by blue peanut m and m
Summary: The risks are high, but they have to be taken, when an accident happens whilst an injured John and Sam are left home alone. Teen-Chester Sam 14, Dean 18.
1. Chapter 1

**Taking Chances.**

**Summary. . . . . . . . . . . The risks are high, but they have to be taken, when an accident happens whilst an injured John and Sam are left home alone.**

**A.N. . . . . . . . . . Okay so I'm still dusting off the cobwebs on stories I started writing a while ago, whilst I wait for the bunnies to come back on my unfinished fics. This one I started writing in response to an exchange over on CWESS, last year, for Sam's birthday exchange, and was my original thoughts to a prompt from Epiphany. I ended up going with another story but thought while I'm spring cleaning I might as well finish this one off too. I hope that you enjoy. Peanut x**

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"Oh God! Oh God! Dean, Dean, it hurts so bad. It hurts so bad! Daaaaaddddddyyyy!" John thought he was bound to snap the door handle of the Impala completely; his hand was gripping it that tightly. It was bad enough that they'd had to leave the hunt unfinished, that they had left a vicious beast roaming around injured and looking for its next meal; that he was sitting here nursing a headache from hell itself, but to have to listen to his youngest son's cries of agony and anguish. He had never felt pain like it before, snapped bones, concussions, hell even the time he had wrenched one of his testicles, was nothing compared to the misery he was feeling now, having to listen to his youngest sons tortured suffering. He risked moving his own sore neck and body in the seat, hoping to try and catch a glimpse of Sam, but all he could see was the back of his eldest son's head, as he crouched in the small gap between seats trying desperately to keep an agonized Sam as still as possible.

"How's he doin'?" John asked, needing to at least hear how Sam was, even if he couldn't see him. What he got in response though threatened to shatter him completely.

"Daaaaaddddddyyyy! Daaaaaddddddyyyy! Please Daaaaaddddddyyyy! Please stop, it hurts so much, Daaaaaddddddyyyy!"

John didn't realize Bobby had risen his foot from the gas pedal until he felt the big car start to slow down, he turned his whole body slowly around and glared at the older man beside him.

"What are you doin'? We're nowhere near the house, why are you slowing down?"

"I'm turnin' the damn car around, that's what I'm doin'. I never should have agreed t' take the kid home. He needs a damn doctor John, not two hunter's that think they know enough, a heavy dose of whiskey, and a couple of band aids."

"What! Bobby, no! We can't risk it."

"We have to John. This is bigger than you and me. He's hurtin'. He's hurtin' bad, and I for one cannot stand by and listen to his cries of agony anymore."

"Then drop us off at the house, grab your shit together, get in your truck and leave. I'll handle this myself."

"You are a damn pigheaded son of a bitch, John Winchester. And how are you goin' to manage to do that? You're busted up bad too John, you can hardly move your neck, your ankles the size of a football, and I'd bet the deeds to the salvage yard, you're seeing double right about now, and have a twenty one gun salute goin' on in that stubborn as a mule head of yours."

"Damn it! You know I can't take him to the hospital Bobby. You've seen his back, you've seen those bruises, they look like freakin' hand prints. The quacks will take one look at them and whisk him away from me quicker than you can spell CPS. We can't risk it, you know this is the only way Bobby, we'll get Jackson to take a look at him."

"Jackson? Jackson is a crazy assed, drunken, dishonorably discharged, ex-army medic John! He aint no doctor."

"He'll have to do, I have to take a chance on him, otherwise this family will shatter. I can't take him to the hospital, if Sam got taken away, Dean . . . . . . . . . . . . hell, both of us wouldn't survive."

Bobby glanced quickly at his friend, noticing the fear and guilt that battled each other in his eyes, and the pain lines that etched their way across his face. Praying he wasn't making a gigantic mistake, his pressed his foot harder on the gas and lurched the big car back towards the Winchester homestead, his eyes traveling to the back seat and the boy he thought so much of, his heart willing him to allow the pain to drag him under.

Jackson banged upon the peeling paint of the Winchester's remote front door, three hours after Bobby's frantic call, his mood sour, his body tired, and his head in desperate need of a couple of shots of whiskey; he knew though that he could do nothing about the last two, but his mood started to change and blacken further, as he heard the faint cries of the youngest Winchester coming from inside, and the screech of wood on wood as Bobby finally opened the warped door and he stepped into the sparsely furnished yet extremely tidy house.

"Jackson, it's damn good to see ya. . . . . . . . . ." Bobby started, only to be cut off as Jackson's famous anger kicked in.

"Where the hell is he Singer? And if the pain is as bad as I can hear, why the hell isn't he admitted?"

"Now hang on a minute. . . . . . . . . ." Bobby tried again.

"Are ya gonna tell me where he is? Or do I have to figure that one out for myself? You're the god damn one who called me, now d'ya need my help or not?" Not waiting for an answer, Jackson pushed past the older man, past the door leading to the basement, and headed for the bedroom at the back of the single level house. "Awww to hell with it, I'll figure it out myself. Make yourself useful and go and get my god damn bag." He shouted over his shoulder.

His mood hadn't improved after he had pushed open the door to Sam and Dean's sparse bedroom and set eyes upon the youngster writhing about on the bed, his brother doing his best to calm him, to keep him still, whilst his father, the stupid stubborn bastard he thought under his breathe, was attempting to stitch up a gaping wound in his youngest son's head with hands that Jackson could see from here, were shaking like leaves in the wind.

"Move outta the way John!" Jackson ground out as he made his way over, his tone brokering no room to object. John wanted to though, wanted to tell him where to go, wanted to tell him he had this, but deep down he knew he didn't, and knew he wasn't at his best, so with a scowl the medic's way he acquiesced.

"I need you all to leave, I need space in here." Jackson spoke as he bent on unwilling knees so he could be at his patient's level. He knew he would receive grumbled complaints, would have been shocked if he didn't, but it still pissed him off no end that they came, and anger that showed in his features as he turned from Sam and demanded once again. "I need the space to treat him. If you won't leave for me then think about Sam, you know he'll be embarrassed, hell ashamed even, when he's better, if he found out you watched me undress him."

John and Bobby could see the truth in those words and turned to go, placing all their trust in Jackson to help Sam. Dean on the other hand refused point blank to leave his sibling's side, no threats, and no promises could get him to move, something Jackson had known all along. So with the young hunter by his side, to offer yet more comfort and help, Jackson began.

Sweat glistened upon his brow as he stepped out of the room; that need for whiskey having risen with each passing second of the exam, as each touch of Sam's back had elicited a scream of pain that had pierced through the armor that Jackson had coated his heart with. He'd lost everyone he ever cared about to the hunt a long time ago, and he'd promised he would never get close to anyone ever again, yet today he found himself in a losing battle to keep that promise alive. He walked into the sparse kitchen with its uneven table and mismatched chairs, skirting both and aiming instead for the new but well-used coffee pot he could smell a rich aroma emanating from.

"Well?" John asked as the hunter strode past him and Bobby.

Jackson ignored him, his need for a boost of any kind more important to him than speaking to the two stubborn idiots behind him, who he knew wouldn't like his response. He ignored them again, as he poured the extra strong sludge into the biggest mug he could find, not caring that its rim was chipped and cracked. It was only after he had swallowed half of the scalding hot brew down, that he turned their way.

"Sam needs a hospital."

"What? No Jackson. You know why we can't go there, you know what will happen. You'll have to do. You'll have to fix him." John shouted out, his sentences rushing together, as his frayed nerves got the better of him. Even sat out in the kitchen they had heard every one of Sam's pitiful screams, and every one had torn at John's already fragile heart.

"That's just it John!" Jackson responded. "I can't just fix this, this it too big for me. He's out for now, but that's only down to the copious amounts of whiskey I've forced down his throat. You thought things were bad now; just you wait until that all wants to come back up again. He needs proper meds. He needs x-rays and scans and shit. Do you think I carry that type of crap in the back of my broken down Mini? You're not thinking straight John! Sam needs help, and I don't think I'm person to give it to him."

"Well, you'll have to be, cause I can't risk taking him in. I can't risk losing him Jackson; I can't lose another member of my family. There has to be some other way."

The ex-medic turned away as his hard fought for gruff exterior threatened to fall. He knew he was right, the healer in him knew he was right, but he also knew that John was; that as soon as any of the medical personal got a look at Sam, he would be taken away.

"What about that big vet's clinic down the road, the one that treats all the farm animals? Will they have the equipment you might need?" Bobby asked, speaking for the first time.

Jackson rubbed a hand over his weary eyes and down through his tangled and messed up hair. "It's not ideal, but it's the best we got. Come on, we best move Sam whilst it's still dark, and while he's still under."

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He wondered, as he sat there listening to the soft moans emanating from the sleeping figure on the bed, if this was what Dean, since he had been old enough, felt like every time he was left out of a hunt. Like some sort of unwanted, useless object; a discarded toy that was no longer popular to play with; inadequate and inferior and inept and worthless. He rubbed a weary hand across his grey flecked stubble, he knew he was being too hard upon himself, knew that he wasn't in any shape to finish what was supposed to have been just a simple banshee hunt, knew that he was the right choice to stay behind and tend to their injured, but that didn't make him feel any better, he needed to be out there feeling useful, not stuck here in this house with its pealing wallpaper, and it's damp spots, and it's drafty windows, and it's temperamental electricity, and it's lumpy bed that held his youngest son.

His baby boy who he didn't know how to talk to, or care for; his baby boy who had been pushed so forcefully by the banshee, when they had first attempted to banish her, that he had injured his back so severely he had screamed out in pain at every movement; his baby boy who had then suffered immensely through the car journey home, who had suffered through being moved into the house and then Jackson's examination. Sam had luckily been unaware of the next move to the veterinarians, and all the positioning into poses for x-rays; x-rays that when they had come back held nothing but bad news. Jackson had tried to sugar coat it, the damage was severe, but it could heal, so long as Sam was kept as still as possible for as long as it took to do so, but they all knew in this line of business staying still for long periods of time brought its own danger. Still John had to try.

So he had agreed to stay, his own injuries enough to keep him here, whilst Bobby, Jackson and Dean attempted to finish off the hunt they had started; the hunt that had caused all these problems in the first place. Whilst John sat at home listening to the storm that accumulated rage outside, and Sam's pitiful cries sing out from down the hallway, and getting angrier and angrier by the minute, he wanted to be out there, he wanted to be the one that banished the bitch that had hurt his son so. His ankle, and his neck, and his head, all throbbed in time to his rising heartbeat. He needed a drink, his hand reaching down for the bottle of whiskey Jackson had left by his side after he had refused to take the pain medication the medic had offered. Lifting the bottle to his lips, he gulped down a large shot, feeling its effects as its warmth spread through his body. As a particularly loud cry erupted from his son though, John knew that one shot was not enough. He lifted again, the golden liquid running freely for a few seconds before it abruptly stopped the bottle drained and dry.

"Shit!" John shouted, his hand rising, ready to throw the now useless glass at the wall, only to fall as he remembered his injured son in the next room. He needed more though, just a little something to take the edge off. Remembering the hidden bottle downstairs in the basement, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, wincing as he put pressure on his damaged ankle, and steadying himself of the sofa's arm as his neck and head protested the movement. He moved towards the basement door, flinching as a particularly load crash of thunder boomed overhead, eliciting a cry from his son. He knew he should go in there and offer comfort, knew of Sam's aversion to storm from an early age, he just needed that edge to do so, just needed something that would allow him to comfort Sam as well as Dean could.

Opening the door, he placed his hands on the rails, supporting himself whilst he moved his swollen ankle. He'd lumbered his way down three of the steps, his good leg raised ready to take the fourth, when a brilliant flash of lightening erupted outside, the lights inside flickering madly before they went out altogether, causing his balance to falter, and his bad ankle giving out. He tried to hold on, to steady himself with his arms, but the pressure sent spikes of pain shooting out from his neck, one hand reaching out instinctively to massage the area. Too late, he realized, too late to try and grab back a hold of the rail, and he could do nothing to stop his fall; his own cries of pain ripped from him as he bounced down the wooden stairs, his neck and ankle alternately slamming into each tread, his body passing into unconsciousness before he'd even reached the bottom.

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**A.N. . . . . . . . . . . That's all for now Folks, chapter 2 is halfway done so I'll be back soon with more. Peanut x**


	2. Chapter 2

**Taking Chances.**

**Summary. . . . . . . . . . . The risks are high, but they have to be taken, when an accident happens whilst an injured John and Sam are left home alone.**

**Disclaimer. . . . . . . . . Still belong to, and are the creation of the genius that is Kripke, like my library books I'm just loaning them.**

**A.N. . . . . . . . . .Thank you so much to everyone who took time out to read, review, and add to their favorites; as always it's such a great boost. Sorry about the wait for an update, but I've spent the week job hunting, so you can imagine my mind has been elsewhere. Here's chapter 2, enjoy. Peanut x**

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Sam awoke as the first crash of thunder rattled the frame of their small house, his muddled pain filled mind instinctively crying out for his brother, before it cleared slightly and he remembered. His brother was gone, he'd been left alone. His brother had gone to finish up the hunt he had caused to fail. Oh he knew deep down, he wasn't to blame, just like he knew he wasn't alone, but the pain, the agony; he was feeling was clouding his usually bright judgment. He knew there was nothing he could have done to prevent what had happened in the woods, just as he knew that his Dad was out there in the living room, probably drinking himself into oblivion, anything to avoid being in here with him.

A bolt of lightning blazed through the threadbare curtains, illuminating the tattered wallpaper, and battered rug upon the floor, and causing Sam to jump and cry out once more; a part of him wanting, needing his Father's comfort, it hurt, it hurt so much; a part of him telling himself to suck it up, that it was only pain, that his Dad, and his Brother, and their friends wouldn't be lying here crying about it. He startled slightly, as his Dad's shout rang out, and he heard him start to walk his way, and he couldn't help the overwhelming need for him to enter his room and comfort him from engulfing him, consuming him; he should have known better though, after all he knew his Dad didn't think of him like he did Dean, that he didn't love him as much as he did Dean, but then again why should he? Dean wouldn't be lying here, crying and whimpering. Dean was after all the perfect soldier. He heard the basement door open, and tears prickled his eyes, he knew what his Dad was going for, his own form of comfort, the type of comfort he couldn't compete with.

He listened as his Father stumbled slowly down the stairs, trying not to feel so hurt by the fact that alcohol obviously ranked above him in his Dad's eyes. He jumped in pure fear as lightning flashed brightly once more, its fingers crackling loudly and seeming to Sam to have struck extremely close to the house. He pushed his face as best he could into the rough cotton of his pillow, agonizingly lifted an arm to try and hide his despair and his reddening eyes as the tears he had been holding back fell once more, and waited for the storm to pass over, willing his mind to switch off and allow him to descend into oblivion, a cry of pain and an unusual noise almost going unheard as thunder once again rumbled in the distance.

"Dad?" Sam shouted out, waiting for a response as long as possible before trying again over and over, louder and louder each time. "DAD!" But no reply was forthcoming. Panic erupted within him, his Dad had left him, his Dad had left him alone and suffering in pain. No, no, no, no, no; that wouldn't happen, he wouldn't leave him, no matter what he wouldn't leave him, but if he hadn't left, then what had happened? Why wasn't he answering him? His silence, for Sam, could mean only one other thing, his Dad was hurt, and Sam was stuck here useless and unable to help.

He tried to move, tried to raise himself up onto his elbows, he needed to get up, he needed to get out there, he needed to help; but excruciating spikes of torture reverberated throughout his body with every miniscule movement he made, causing him to wail out loud. He forced through, pure will, his body to stop moving and his mouth to clamp off his screaming; drawing in great gulps of air and expelling them slowly in an attempt to calm himself even more. Once slightly more in control, he attempted again to call out for his Father. His voice was hoarse and barely a whisper, when he first noticed the smell.

It was slight, but it was there, and that knowledge sent spikes of fear racing around Sam's body. Fire; somewhere nearby it burned. He could smell it, the stench of charcoal, and the burnt flesh of critters unable to escape fast enough; and it was getting stronger. He had to get out; they had to get out, but how? He could barely move, and his Dad, well his Dad could be dead for all he knew. No, he refused to believe that, but he had to be hurt, and hurt badly enough that he had been knocked unconscious; what else would prevent him from answering? It would be down to Sam then, he would have to will his body out of the bed, across the small room and into the hallway; but could he do it? The consequences of moving would be painful and dangerous for him, he'd heard what Jackson had said, knew what the risks were; but the risks of staying where he was, were even higher. Death was lurking, and his Dad and he were lying directly in the path it wanted to take. He had to do this. He had to be brave. But the doubts he always felt about not being good enough, niggled at his mind.

He turned his eyes up to the skies, and prayed; prayed for the strength to do this, prayed for the courage, prayed that the hunt would finish quickly and help would come running. A sinister creak and groan sounding from outside, before a huge crash resounded, the house seeming to reverberate beneath his bed; it was getting closer, devouring all within its path and Sam knew time was now of the essence. He pushed aside the comforter Dean had placed over him, crying out as chills raced their way through his body, reigniting the agony. He bit down on his lips, breathing heavily through his nose, to try and work his way through the pain. Grabbing at his bare legs, he eased each one slowly over the edge of the bed, nearly passing out from the torture each movement inflicted. Tears streamed down his cheeks, blood flowing from where he'd bitten through his flesh, but he kept moving, he had no choice. Painstakingly he moved his elbow, and guarding his movements, slowly raised himself up. It was too much, the wretchedness he felt increased substantially, the torturous agony flamed through every nerve and fiber, blood rushed to his head increasing the throbbing that already resided there, his eyes darkened and he could do little to prevent his body from sliding to the side and falling limply to the floor.

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**A.N. . . . . . . . . . . . That's all for now folks! Sorry it's so short. Will be back soon with more. Peanut x**


	3. Chapter 3

**Taking Chances.**

**Summary. . . . . . . . . . . The risks are high, but they have to be taken, when an accident happens whilst an injured John and Sam are left home alone.**

**Disclaimer. . . . . . . . . Still belong to, and are the creation of the genius that is Kripke, like my library books I'm just loaning them.**

**A.N. . . . . . . . . . . Thank you so much to everyone who has taken time out to read this story so far, and to those who have reviewed or added to favorites, I very much appreciate it. Here's chapter 3, will catch you at the end. Peanut x**

**Huge thanks to Vonnie for the tip on how to post this, seeing as though ff wasn't allowing me to do so. I saw your review, Vonnie, took your advice and voila!**

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Everything hurt; the pain vibrating about his body so that it seemed like nothing could escape it wrath. He tried to move, tried to turn over to try and find a place on the unforgiving floor that was less harsh, and more comfortable; but even the smallest of movements seemed to ignite the agony, sending wave after wave of uncontrollable pain rushing through every nerve and sinew, igniting a throbbing in his head that in turn started a churning within his stomach. Bile rose quickly, burning at his throat. He tried once again to turn, but his limbs felt like lead, and his muscles like jelly; panic overtook him and he started to choke.

"Dean! Dean!" He barely even registered the voice that worriedly called his name, or the gentle hands that grabbed him, turning him tenderly over so that the vile mess had somewhere to escape to. "Come on son, don't you do this to me, look at me Dean. I promised John I'd bring ya back safe. Dean!" The concerned voice asked again, this time the words registering, a picture of the voices owner also flashing within his mind. Hell if Bobby was that worried, he must be messed up, something the pain he was feeling was telling him was true.

He managed, with some difficulty, to open his eyes; blurry images swaying and dancing before him. He blinked heavily a couple of times before trying once more to focus on the older hunters features, licked at his dry and foul tasting lips before trying to speak. "What happened? Where are we?"

"The damn banshee got the drop on you, threw you damn near into the next county, you're just damn lucky you landed where you did. I knew I should have insisted you stay back at the house, I knew your mind wasn't completely on the job. You were stupid Dean, careless and stupid. Come on; let's get you up and out of here."

Dean pulled back on Bobby's arm as the older hunter tried to pull him up, something was niggling at his mind. "Where's Sam, Bobby? Is Sam alright?"

Bobby looked into the worried eyes of the younger man, his concerns rising that he had missed something in his original assessment; he would have to get Jackson to look him over more thoroughly once he came back from burning the banshee's corpse. Keeping back the extent of Sam's injuries, not wanting the older Brother to panic and hurt himself even more, he replied. "Sam's waiting back at the house Dean, don't you remember? Sam stayed at home with your Dad. He's fine."

"No he's not. Something's wrong. I can feel it." Dean shouted out, clumsily trying to clamber to his feet at the same time.

"Okay, okay. Listen and calm down. Sam will be okay, he got hurt on the last hunt, do you remember?"

Dean thought for a minute, tried to make sense of the confusion in his mind, tried to remember; a part of him wishing that he didn't remember when those screams and cries echoed throughout his head once more; but that wasn't it, that wasn't what was worrying him, something else was wrong, something else had happened. "Bobby pass me the radio, I need to call home, something's wrong."

"Dean, they'll be fine. You hit your head pretty hard, you're just confused." Bobby replied.

"Bobby, please. Something is wrong, I can feel it."

Bobby's own unease was beginning to climb. He had witnessed in the past the uncanny bond both Brother's seemed to have, if Dean was worried, maybe he should be too. "Okay." He said as he passed the CB over. "Give them a call."

He ignored Jackson as he returned, and watched as Dean tried over and over to get John to respond, his unease turning into full blown panic when they received nothing in return, only static.

"We gotta go Bobby, something is wrong. Hell, you know as well as I do, even drunk my Dad would answer. We gotta go."

"Dean, even speeding we're a good three hours away."

"Well, we better not waste any more time sitting around here then. Help me up."

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His ears screeched and crackled, an annoying sound that clawed its way through his unconsciousness and started to rip him from the darkness. As awareness came more to him, he started to realize that the sound wasn't coming from inside his ears, but from somewhere above him. Forcing his eyes open, he slammed them shut again just as quickly as the light, even though dim, pierced his eyeballs and sparked an agony behind them that battered his brain and turned his stomach. He breathed slowly and deeply to quell the rolling in his stomach, before trying to open them once again to look around him and find out what was creating that noise, concern crashed over him once knowledge of what it was hit him, the radio.

He started to rise, turning his body so that he could climb to his knees, not even thinking about why he was sprawled upon on the floor, or injuries, until broken bones ground across each other and a savage grunt of agony escaped from his mouth. His elbows buckled, the bile he had been quelling rose once more, and there was little he could do to stop his descent to the floor once more, his head bouncing as it landed, the gash that had been closing, reopening and oozing crimson, the blood seeping into the concrete.

The questions rose then. What the hell? Why was he hurting so much? What had caused this? Was he still in danger? Were his boys? Where was he? It was the radio, crackling into life once again, and Dean's faint voice that reminded him. The botched hunt, Sam hurt, coming home, Sam screaming in pain, Jackson, Sam whimpering and calling his name, Bobby and Dean leaving to clean up, Sam waking up troubled by the storm, himself needing a boost to even go in and comfort him, the empty bottle, the full one downstairs, the fall. Oh crap! How could he have been so stupid, so selfish? His baby boy was seriously hurt upstairs, alone and needing him, but what was he concerned about? Himself, always himself.

Oh he tried he really did, it had been easy with Dean but Sam, Sam was another story, he questioned everything, queried every order, demanded answers, and John didn't know how to handle that. He loved his both son's equally and without question. He did his best every single day to ensure they stayed safe and alive in the unfortunate world they had been brought up in. Gave them orders, trained them well, and demanded their best back in return. Questioning his orders was, in his opinion a waste of time, and not a way to show him you were giving back your best. Sure he was proud of Sam, proud of the knowledge he retained, proud of his grades, but in their world grades meant nothing, and he only wished his son would see that before something bad happened, before someone got hurt, or even worse killed.

Hurt! Crap Sam was hurt, he was suffering upstairs and what was he doing? Criticizing his youngest for having dreams. He had to get back up there, he had to give his son the comfort he needed. He started the breathing exercises he had taught his sons only last week, it didn't take away the agony, but he managed to control it enough to push it back a notch. He turned again and started once more to try and clamber to his feet, stopping as a smell hit his senses, and a sudden loud thud echoed from above; a smell of smoke, and a loud thud that sounded like a body hitting the floor. "Sam! SAMMY!" Oh God, he had to get up there. In his haste he pushed too hard, his growl of pain heard even above the thunder that was drifting off in the distance.

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**A.N. . . . . . . . . . . . . That's all for now folks! I hope that you enjoyed, will be back soon with more. Peanut x**


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